


All The Birds Begin To Sing

by magicalgirldoe



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Amnesia, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Canon, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalgirldoe/pseuds/magicalgirldoe
Summary: Fakir Lohengrin is now a world-famous novelist, with a new book on the way. With press interviews abounding, people want to know: what inspired him to start writing?And that's the problem: he can't remember what, or who, it was.
Relationships: Ahiru | Duck/Fakir (Princess Tutu)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	All The Birds Begin To Sing

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this fic for a long while! It was originally inspired by an old Fakiru week prompt (I think the prompt was "memory" or something like that?) but it's been so long since that particular Fakiru week that I finally just decided to write it seperately.
> 
> Title is from the song "Sunday" by Les Friction.

“So, Mr. Lohengrin, when did you first start writing?”

“It was about ten years ago. I was still a teenager.”

“That’s impressive that you started writing at such a young age.”

“It wasn’t anything much. I didn’t write very often, nothing like what I do now. I barely knew what I was doing.”

“Still, that’s better than nothing! And it got you here today!”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Had you wanted to be a writer before then?”

“No, not at all. I hadn’t ever thought of doing it.”

“Then that must have been quite the change! What inspired you to start writing?”

“What inspired me? I…I’m not sure.”

“…Are you okay, Mr. Lohengrin?”

“…Yeah, sorry. Just…that’s odd.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? We can wrap the interview up now if you’d like.”

“…Well, if that’s okay with you.”

“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly fine! Thank you for joining us!”

“Thank you for having me.”

“And when did you say your new book was coming out?”

“August 16th.”

“Got it! So for our listeners, be sure to check out Fakir Lohengrin’s newest novel, out August 16th!”

\---

Fakir kept his eyes on the sidewalk out of habit as he walked down the street. The chatter of the town carried on around him; the summer day wasn’t especially hot, so the downtown area was louder and busier that usual. He didn’t intend to stick around for too long, anyway. The latest interview for another literary podcast hadn’t gone on as long as he expected, so he could take some time for himself at home, as a break from the near-constant publicity appearances promoting his new book.

The interview had gone well enough, he supposed. There were the typical questions: asking about what inspired this book, questions about the book where he couldn’t give away too much of the plot, questions about his writing process, all the usual things to be asked in interviews like this. It seemed as normal as ever.

And then there had been that question about how he started writing; another average question. But something in his mind had come up blank.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember what had inspired him to start writing. Sure, not every memory from his teenage days were perfectly clear, but he knew what having forgotten something felt like. This felt different, like there was something that should be there-that he _knew_ was there-that wasn’t. Like where there should be a memory, there was only a vague feeling.

He had felt his chest tighten in the interview when the podcaster brought it up. It had felt so _strong_. He knew there had to be something there; something so important to him that had caused him to start writing.

But no matter how he tried to trace the feeling, his mind came up empty.

The bubbling of the fountain in the town square made white noise as he slowed, lost in his own thoughts. Children chased each other in the nearby park as their parents chatted and watched. A flock of birds cooed and chirped as a girl with a long ginger braid fed them seed from a bag.

There had been something there, wasn’t there? Something that meant so much to him.

But no matter how he dwelled on it, nothing came to him. So he kept his eyes on the ground as he picked up the pace again and headed back home.

Maybe it would come to him later.


End file.
